


“Using words to describe magic is like using a screwdriver to cut roast beef.”

by notjustmom



Series: Tom Robbins Remix [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First time they meet, M/M, only slightly different
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 20:09:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14220828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: The day of their meeting, at least in this verse.





	“Using words to describe magic is like using a screwdriver to cut roast beef.”

In the days and weeks before Sherlock was introduced to John, he was unnaturally quiet, as if waiting for something.

"What do you suppose..." Billy whispered into the odd stillness.

Hildegarde shushed him, not unkindly, as she had to admit she was a bit worried herself. He was clean, had even quit the cigarettes cold turkey during his latest, and hopefully last stint in rehab, still too thin for her liking, though she knew he would only cock an eyebrow at her and go back to - whatever it was he was doing, it was more than thinking, and less. She could always tell if he was working on a case, he would move chaotically around the room, chattering away, nodding then shaking his head... not a case, then. So she kept herself to herself, as things made of magic do, on occasion. She knew that at times words got in the way, words meant to make things more transparent often lead to misunderstandings, truces are broken, love lost, as the natural music of the world is unheard and dismissed all too easily.

So, she remained silent until Sherlock rose from his self-imposed downtime and demanded answers, answers he was not prepared to take ownership of, not yet...

"Why do people fall in love, Hildy? It can only end badly."

"True, but, perhaps, it is worth it."

Sherlock stormed over to her and put his hands on his hips. "Worth it? In what way?"

Hildegarde, who had been witness to some of the legendary hatreds and even greater loves of the last three hundred years simply sighed. "Maybe one day, you will understand." And once more she fell into a muteness, rather than continue the pointless argument, as Sherlock could argue for days if given the chance, and he didn't have the time for that, he had places to be, and though she would have preferred to be the one who gave him the necessary nudge in the right direction, she left it to Billy, as she knew how much it would mean to him to be able to claim the credit for what was to come...

 

"It's a bit different from my day..." John muttered, then looked over at the figure standing over the microscope and blinked, then without realizing, stood up as straight as he could, and wished he had chosen a different shirt, or alternatively could vanish from the face of the earth as the figure spoke, something about his phone not working, in a voice that was not possible, of course it was because he heard it, improbable was a better word he decided, then heard himself offer up his recently acquired phone - and the figure, a slightly younger man, taller, pale - no, ethereal - and vivid green? blue? there had to be a colour that described his eyes, the eyes that seemed to see through him, but John realized after a moment, they were seeing into him. He was made of angles, sharp, inquisitive - save for the soft, lush lips, and the raven curls that drifted slightly into his eyes - a bit out of control, the long fingers that gently brushed against his own, as he took the phone from him, sent the tiniest frisson of something through him and deafened him momentarily.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John knew he had spoken, had asked him a question, and was waiting for a response.

"Sorry?"

The brilliant eyes glanced up in slight irritation. John had the idea that he was irritated often, by most of the people he came in contact with, but he repeated his question a bit clearer as if speaking to a small child.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Later he would learn how Sherlock had taken one brief look at him and boiled his existence down to a few external markers, but at the time, it felt like magic, that anyone, especially someone like him would bother wondering enough to come to any conclusions about him. As Sherlock was chattering on about his 'bad habits' and proposing an arrangement, John's own thoughts led him to the notion that if Sherlock had been around in the time when they drowned witches... Sherlock would have been among them, though he'd probably find a way to talk them out of it -

"But, we know nothing about each other, I don't even know where to meet you, or your name -" John finally managed to blurt out, leaning heavily on his walking stick and glaring at the man who was trying to make a quick, but dramatic exit. 

Sherlock bit his lip and paused. To John, it seemed that he had wanted to say something cutting, but refrained, and instead bowed his head in John's direction, cleared his throat and said, "the address is 221 B Baker Street, the name is Sherlock Holmes." And with a wink, he was gone.

 

Sherlock flew up the stairs and muttered to himself as he strode about the room, pushing some boxes around and straightening a few unwieldy stacks of papers. Billy sneezed as the dust began to fly and Hildy laughed as Sherlock stepped into Bernie and sat for a brief moment, then got up again and stomped to the open door and bellowed, "MRS. HUDSON!" 

"You bellowed, dear?" Mrs. Hudson appeared at the doorway, a tray of tea in her hands.

"I found him, Mrs. H!"

"Him?"

"HIM, him!" Sherlock smiled at her, then flounced over to her and kissed both cheeks.

"Oh... him..."

"You know, 'the one'?" Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned and sighed at the perpetual mess that served as a kitchen/lab, though mostly a lab, as he rarely cooked anything - he would have to get rid of the eyeballs, and what was it exactly he had in the freezer, and in the salad drawer, he wasn't quite sure... John had been a doctor and a soldier, perhaps he wouldn't mind too terribly... "Hildy?"

"Yes, dear."

"Are you sure? Do you really think - I, I've never - had this feeling before, I feel ill and peaceful and - my stomach - I'm hungry and full and I don't know what I want, except, I know, I know for certain that I want him, Hildy - is this what you meant?"

Hildegarde sighed and sang out quietly, "let it settle, dearheart, sometimes it take time for the magic to do its thing, a bit of patience may be required."

"Patience..." Sherlock hissed as he threw himself onto the couch, wrapped his coat tightly around himself and fell asleep.

Mrs. Hudson tsked at him silently as she slipped his shoes off and draped a throw around him. "Hildy? Are you sure - you haven't even met him yet..."

"I know, Martha - I could tell from his footsteps, from the look in his eye - he's been preparing, he's ready - the spell has been cast... it will just take a bit of time." And with that, she slipped once more into silence.


End file.
